


Mickey Milkovich is a "Bad" Influence

by badtothebinding



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Brief mentions of Monica's suicide, Gen, M/M, very limited interpretation of a depressive episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtothebinding/pseuds/badtothebinding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the week or so after Ian's first depressive episode (post 4x12). Carl makes it his mission to see Ian through his depression and gains a much better understanding of Mickey Milkovich in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Small Victories

**Author's Note:**

> I love Carl so much, especially now that he's growing up, and this fic just kind of flowed out of me. Writing Carl and Mickey is also super fun. 
> 
> Also, I have a very limited understanding of bipolar disorder so this is just my interpretation of what Ian's depression might be like from Mickey and Carl's point of view.

The quiet stillness of the room is misleading; the only movement dust motes floating through the weak bars of filtered sunlight. It is impossible to tell the time of day. Time has no meaning in this room anymore.

Carl shifts his numb legs a little from where he is sitting with his back against the wall. From here he can just see over the edge of the bed. He can’t recall how long he’s been staring across the dirty sheets at the lifeless body of his older brother. No, fuck that, not lifeless, just still. He’s not dead. He’s not; he’s just ‘experiencing a depressive episode’ or some shit. At least that’s what Fiona and Lip keep saying. He doesn’t really understand it. He doesn’t really understand anything people are saying about Ian these days. Fiona and Lip are careful; they only talk about it when they think Carl and Debbie are asleep upstairs but he can hear words like “bipolar”, “medication”,  “hospitalized”, and “Monica” whispered like curses, filtering up the stairs from the kitchen.  Carl may not know much about bipolar disorder but he knows everything he needs to know about Ian. He knows Ian is a fighter. He’s the toughest guy Carl knows and if anyone can beat this shit it's Ian.

Carl may not be able to help Ian but he’s not leaving him to deal with it on his own. He’s sick of watching his family fall apart.

The sound of the bedroom door opening draws Carl’s attention from counting Ian’s breaths. He watches Mickey walk in with a sandwich and a glass of water, which he places on the nightstand. He looks away as Mickey kneels by Ian’s side on the bed and brushes the covers gently away from Ian’s face. Mickey looks self consciously over to see Carl fiddling with something in his lap before he brushes dry lips across Ian’s forehead.

“Hey sleepyface, brought you some lunch,” he whispers, rubbing his fingers softly through Ian’s hair. “Try to eat it okay?”

Carl looks up in time to see Ian’s lips twitch while he leans minutely into Mickey’s touch. After a few minutes Mickey glances over to Carl and notices the combat knife in his hands. He leans over the bed for a closer look and snatches the knife out of Carl’s hands.

“Hey!” Carl protests, but quiets when he sees Ian flinch at the loud noise. Mickey shoots a concerned look back at the bed before nodding his head towards the open door. Carl follows him out to the living room, closing the door behind himself. Mickey is still looking at the knife; he runs his fingers gently over the blade.

“This is Ian’s, isn’t it?” Mickey asks.

Carl looks back at the closed bedroom door before he answers.

“He was gonna teach me the different hand grips…” he mumbles. Mickey looks up and Carl can see the realization in his eyes. That was before the army. Before Liam’s accident. Before everything went to shit.

“Fuck,” Mickey says, not knowing what else to say. He’s getting used to not knowing what the fuck to say these days.

“Yeah,” Carl replies, shrugging. He didn’t really know when he felt the need to start carrying around the knife but it reminds him a little bit of the old Ian so he likes having it close.

“So, Private Gallagher was gonna teach you some of that ROTC Army shit, huh?” Mickey says suddenly. Carl nods and Mickey looks at him for a minute before shrugging and completely unsheathing the blade. He beckons Carl closer and moves to stand behind him.

“Well, I might not be professionally trained like Captain America in there but I’ve been training with him long enough to pick up a few tricks. C’mere, I’ll show you,” Mickey says as he positions Carl’s arms and fingers.

Neither boy notices the time passing until Mickey’s phone buzzing breaks the relative quiet of the living room. Mickey checks his phone. It’s a text from Mandy, letting him know she’s bringing home leftovers from the diner. He starts typing back a response as Carl puts the knife away back in his coat pocket. Mickey hits send and then remembers about Ian in the other room. He walks over to the door and peeks in; Carl peers around his shoulder. Light streams in from the hall and illuminates Ian’s sleeping form. Mickey sighs, but his shoulders lift when he notices the half eaten sandwich and empty water glass on the nightstand.

Carl steps back as Mickey pulls the door shut again. He should probably be getting back to the house. Not that anyone is really expecting him. The house hasn’t been much more than a warm place to sleep for most of the Gallagher kids since Fiona got arrested. With the older ones scattered there isn’t really anyone around keeping tabs on the younger siblings. He pauses with his hand on the door as Mickey heads to the kitchen for a beer.

“Hey, thanks Mickey.”

Mickey pauses between sips. “Yeah, don’t worry about it, Gallagher,” he nods.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, is that cool?” Carl asks.

“I’m working the rub ‘n tug tomorrow but somebody should be here to let you in. If not, it ain’t like it’s Fort Knox." Mickey shrugs. "Better get home, Gallagher.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Carl says, stepping out into the cold Chicago air.


	2. "Bad" Influence

When Mickey gets home from the Alibi the next day Carl is already camped out in what is clearly becoming “his” spot on the floor next to the bed. Ian must be feeling better today because he’s facing Carl and his eyes are open. He isn’t saying much but seems to be paying attention as Carl updates him about Liam. Mickey shrugs out of his coat, throwing it in a heap in the corner of the bedroom.

 “So, Lip says the doctors think Liam should be okay,” Carl continues, completely unfazed by the lack of interest shown by his audience. Mickey turns back to the bed, stripping off his gloves and scarf and throwing them in the general direction of his discarded coat.

 “Good news is, I gave Liam a test to see if he’s retarded and he passed,” Carl says as Mickey sits down on his side of the bed and pulls a dogeared Guns & Ammo catalog from under the mattress.  “Bad news is, I failed it.” Mickey and Carl both laugh as Ian’s lips twitch in his not-quite-smile they are getting more accustomed to seeing.

Mickey nods at Carl to keep going as he lays his hand down on Ian’s shoulder, rubbing gently. Ian’s eyes close briefly and Carl racks his brain for something else to talk about.

“Bonnie left me,” Carl finally blurts out, shoulders slumping. Ian opens his eyes again but his expression is questioning. “I can’t find her anywhere. The van’s missing and she hasn’t been at school since she left our house.”

Ian looks sympathetic and he reaches his pale hand out of the covers. Carl wraps his hand around it, feeling how cold it is despite the blankets piled on top of his brother. Mickey drops his magazine and any pretenses of not eavesdropping.

“So, what happened? You do something to her?” Mickey asks, folding his arms and looking at Carl pointedly. Carl pulls his hand from Ian’s to cross his own arms defiantly.

“I love her,” he spits angrily. Mickey raises his eyebrows and shoots an affectionate glance at Ian.

“Yeah, well, love is pretty scary shit,” Mickey mumbles. Ian turns over on his back to grab at Mickey’s hand picking at the blanket. He links their fingers and pulls Mickey’s hand to his chapped lips. The two seem lost in their own world. Carl sees Mickey’s eyes soften as he rubs calloused fingers across Ian’s cheek and leans down to peck lightly at Ian’s mouth.

Carl clears his throat and watches as Mickey’s face blooms red and he pulls back. He looks back at Carl, trying to save face, but Carl notices he doesn’t move away from Ian. In fact, he seems to subconsciously move even closer to the other boy as if protecting him. Mickey rolls his shoulders, looking for a way to change the subject.

“Hey, you still having trouble with shitheads at your school ragging on Liam?” is the best he can come up with. “Cuz I can come down to there to help ‘educate’ them in basic human decency. Teach them what happens when you mess with family.” He makes a show of cracking his knuckles menacingly.

Ian shakes his head and Carl thinks he can see a real smile on his face. “Don't,” he whispers softly. The other two boys crane their necks closer to hear. “Mick, too risky.” Mickey nods, smiling.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, tough guy. No need to yell.” Ian nods back and burrows deeper into the pillow. All this conversation seems to have exhausted him. Mickey tucks the sheets tighter around him as he stands up and beckons Carl to the door.

“C’mon, Gallagher. Let him get some sleep,” Mickey says as he ushers Carl into the living room. He closes the door behind them and leans down to whisper conspiratorially into Carl’s ear. “And if you don’t tell Ian I’ll give you some ideas about how to get back at the fuckheads messing with your brother.”

___________________________________________________________________________

When Carl finally makes it home later that day Fiona is already in the kitchen making dinner. Liam sits in a chair at the table scribbling in a coloring book. Carl pauses on his way through the kitchen to kiss Liam's head like he's seen Ian do a hundred times. Like he knows Ian would do if he were here.

Fiona looks up from the stove when she hears the door slam shut.

"Where were you all day?" She asks as she grabs a set of plates from the cabinet. Carl takes them from her and starts setting the table without being asked.

"Visiting Ian," Carl replies simply. He moves Liam's coloring to the far end of the table and grabs cups and forks.

Fiona looks surprised.

"Oh yeah? How's he doing over there with Mickey?" He can hear the worry and accusation in her tone. That's another thing Lip and Fiona talk about when they think he can't hear. Mickey Milkovich and how he's stealing their brother from them; keeping him hostage in the Milkovich House of Horrors.

"He's good."

"What did you guys do today?"

"Talked." Carl doesn't tell Fiona about Ian's secret smiles or Mickey's not-so-subtle comforting. Some things are too private to share.

Fiona looks unimpressed with this update. "I don't know if I like you spending so much time over at the Milkovich house, Carl."

"Ian's there," Carl replies.

"Only because Lip and I haven't figured out a way to get Ian to go to a doctor and get checked out. He needs to be on medication.  But Mickey's like his own personal pit bull," Fiona sighs. "I don't know what Ian sees in him but that doesn't mean you should start hanging around him. He's not a good influence, Carl."

At this, Carl bristles, standing up and pushing away from the table. "You're one to talk!" He yells. "At least Mickey's never been to prison! At least he cared enough about Ian to go find him and bring him back! What did you do? You didn't even care that Ian was gone! And you don't know shit about Mickey!" Carl finishes and stomps upstairs to his room, leaving a stunned speechless Fiona to finish dinner by herself.


	3. Tutoring Session

The next day Carl walks directly to the Milkovich house from school. Nobody's home when he knocks but he walks in and peers into the bedroom where Ian is sleeping. He takes a seat in his spot by the window and pulls out his homework. He's so far behind in math they're threatening summer school if he doesn't catch up. He spreads his textbook out and puts in earbuds as he starts working but pauses every once in a while to check on Ian, who seems to be sleeping deeply.

 He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there when he hears the familiar slam of the front door as Mickey walks in with grocery bags. He watches through the open door as Mickey tosses the bags on the table before he comes over to check on Ian.

 “Hey,” Carl speaks up as Mickey grabs a pack of smokes off the dresser and smiles when Mickey jumps.

 “Fuck, man,” he grumbles, coming around for a closer look at Carl’s setup. “The fuck are you doing hiding out in the dark anyway?” he asks, lighting the cigarette dangling from his lips.

Carl shrugs. “Math homework. School says if I don’t catch up I’ll have to go to summer school.”

“Fuck that,” Mickey scoffs, puffing out smoke. “And enough with the Florence Nightingale shit,” he adds, nodding to Ian. “He ain’t getting up anytime soon. Might as well be comfortable while you’re holding your vigil.” Mickey waves at Carl to gather his stuff and heads out to the kitchen. Carl hesitates. Leaving Ian feels like a betrayal somehow.

“Come on,” Mickey calls. Carl can hear him rattling pots and pans on the stove. He’s probably right. Ian’s sleeping soundly with no signs of waking up. Carl grabs his books and moves them out to the recently cleared table. From here he can see Mickey dumping cans of condensed tomato soup into a pot. Carl continues working as Mickey grabs a beer and joins him at the table.

“What kind of math?” Mickey asks, peering across the piles of papers littering the table.

“I dunno, word problems about prices and taxes and shit.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey seems a little more interested now and pulls a mostly finished worksheet closer. “These are wrong,” he says simply, pointing at half the problems on the page.

“No way,” Carl challenges and grabs the sheet out of Mickey’s hands. “It took me forty minutes to finish that page.”

Mickey shrugs. “Didn’t check your decimal places.”  

Carl slumps down and lays his hands on his folded arms in defeat. “Ugh, this is bullshit. Who even uses this shit in real life?”

Mickey’s eyebrow raises skeptically. He grabs Carls pencil from the table and starts scribbling on one of the sheets. “Uh, like everyone dude. It’s basic math. Look, just put a zero down here, then add. Simple.”

Carl looks up, amazed. “I thought you dropped out. How do you remember this shit?”

Mickey shrugs. “I’ve been dealing with shifty customers and cheapskate dealers since I was old enough to count bills. Nobody cheats a Milkovich,” he says, pointing a menacing finger at the younger boy. The tough facade cracks as the smell of burning soup drifts over to the table.  “Ah, fuck.” Mickey jumps up to pull the pot off the burner before it bubbles over the top. Carl hides his smile as Mickey starts gathering bowls and spoons.

“You hungry?” Mickey asks and starts pouring soup into bowls without waiting for an answer.

“Uh, sure,” Carl responds. Mickey drops a bowl unceremoniously in the middle of his textbook and joins him at the table. The two eat in relative quiet with Carl solving problems between bites while Mickey makes subtle corrections. The sound of the shower starting freezes the two simultaneously. Mickey breaks first and bolts to the bedroom. Ian’s pale silhouette has been a near permanent fixture in the shadows of this room for the last two weeks. It seems emptier now without him here.

Carl keeps his eyes on Mickey when he moves down the hall and knocks on the bathroom door. “Ey, everything alright in there man?” Carl can hear him call out but the sounds of the shower block out Ian’s response. Mickey must be satisfied with the answer because he backs off of the door and goes back to the stove to pour another bowl of soup. Carl turns back to his homework.

A sudden crash diverts his attention. Mickey is standing in a pool of red. Shards of ceramic litter the ground around his feet. Mickey curses and kneels down with a dirty dishtowel  to start mopping up the mess. Carl stills with his eyes locked on the red stains on the floor. Unbidden, an image of Monica laying against the cabinets in the Gallagher house surrounded by pools of her own blood comes to his mind. Mickey, oblivious to Carl, continues cursing and mopping. Carl stands up from the table but stops abruptly to stare down the hall at the still closed bathroom door. The shower is off now and the absence of sound is alarming. Carl stands frozen by thoughts of all the potential blades to be found in the bathroom. His concentration breaks as Mickey crosses the room, brushing Carl’s shoulder roughly on his way to throw the now ruined towels in a pile of dirty laundry in the living room.

When Carl looks back at the bathroom door it is open. Steam billows out into the hallway behind Ian as he shuffles out in a pair of ragged sweatpants and a baggy tank top. Carl quickly scans him for marks and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees nothing but a pale expanse of unblemished skin. Ian offers a weak smile and sits down at the table where there is now a third mostly-full bowl of soup. He toys with the handle of the spoon in his bowl as Mickey occupies the chair next to him and resumes shoveling soup into his mouth.

“The fuck you lookin’ at,” he grunts between spoonfuls, giving Carl a weird look. Ian laughs a little and Carl relaxes and joins them at the table. His soup is cold by now but he keeps eating it anyway while he finishes his homework. He pretends not to notice Ian and Mickey’s hands grasping each other under the table as Ian finally takes a sip and Mickey points out another mistake on the problem he’s working on.


	4. Funny Faces

The sound of screaming and cursing greets Carl the next time he walks in the Milkovich house. He doesn’t bother knocking anymore, just shuts the door behind him and throws his jacket and backpack in a heap near the couch. The screaming is a jarring change from the silence that has recently predominated this house. As he walks further inside he discovers the source of the noise: Mickey is standing in the living room, holding Yevgeny as far away from his face as possible as the baby cries. His tiny face is red and streaked with tears. Mickey doesn’t look far from a breakdown of his own. Carl has never seen true terror on the older boy’s face until now.

“What did you do to him?” Carl asks, and Mickey flinches and turns to face him.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” He replies and looks back helplessly to the baby. “I didn’t do a fuckin’ thing to him. I fed him, changed him, burped him; the fuckin’ thing won’t shut up,” Mickey says, glaring at the infant still wildly squalling in his arms. “Y’know there are other fuckin’ people in this house, little dude. You need to chill out and let Ian sleep. Remember Ian? The carrot top? We like Ian.”

Mickey’s face perks up a bit and he nods conspiratorially to Carl. “Ian left the house today.” Carl’s eyes widen in surprise. Ian hadn’t left the house in more than a week. He had started to think maybe he might not ever leave. “Yeah, just a walk around the block but still, pretty good right?” The pride in his eyes tells Carl it’s much more than  ‘pretty good.’ This is monumental for Mickey. For him this is further proof that Ian is still Ian, just muted for the time being.

Another scream tears through the air from Yevgeny who is still upset and now pissed about being ignored. Carl watches Mickey struggle helplessly for another minute or two before he hold his arms out expectantly and beckons for the baby.

“Give him here,” Carl says, resigned. Mickey looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “C’mon man, hand him over.” Mickey hesitates, looking between the baby and Carl. He shrugs, deciding things can’t get any worse, and pushes the baby roughly into Carl’s waiting hands. Carl lifts Yevgeny into the air and starts making silly faces up at him. The baby quiets suddenly at this new development. Carl brings him closer and wraps his arms around the tiny body as he spins. A sudden stop startles a quiet giggle out of the baby. Carl, remembering countless hours spent coddling a cranky Liam, dips suddenly and starts blowing raspberries on the baby’s smooth white tummy.

Mickey looks on in confused silence. Comforting children is clearly alien behavior in this household. Soon enough, Yevgeny’s eyelids start to droop. All of the crying from earlier has exhausted him.

“Crib?” Carl asks quietly, and Mickey points wordlessly to a beaten up bassinet in the corner of the living room. Carl lays the baby down gently and tucks a ragged baby blanket around his tiny legs. He walks back over to Mickey, who has broken his trance and stands now in the doorway to the bedroom where Ian is now sleeping peacefully.

“Ey, man thanks for taking care of the kid,” Mickey says quietly with his eyes still trained on the boy in the bed. “Svetlana just left. Something about a date with her new girlfriend or some shit and dropped the kid bomb on me.” Mickey moves back into the living room and Carl follows. “I don’t usually have to deal with the kid by myself,” Mickey admits with a shrug.

Carl returns the shrug and replies, “It’s not a big deal. I’ve been helping with Liam as long I can remember. Not to mention all those fucking Gallagher Day Care kids. Babies aren’t hard. Just loud.”

“No fuckin’ kidding,” Mickey grumbles, grabbing a pack of smokes and lighting up. He settles on the couch and grabs the remote, turning the volume down low on the Blackhawks game. Carl joins him for lack of anything else to do. The next hour passes slowly as the two sit in companionable silence. Neither are really big talkers anyway.

The now blessed silence of the house is broken again suddenly as Yevgeny wakes from his nap and starts crying again. Mickey groans and gets up quickly to grab the baby from the crib.

“Hey, you wanna grab the bottle from the counter in the kitchen? He didn’t finish it all earlier,” Mickey says as he sits down on the couch cradling the baby in stiff arms.

“Sure,” Carl says as he gets up.

Mickey stares down as the baby cries and checks to make sure Carl is busy in the kitchen before he contorts his face into what he hopes is some semblance of an amusing expression. Yevgeny calms down a little but looks largely unimpressed with Mickey’s attempts.

“Fuck you, I’m trying,” Mickey grumbles under his breath and frees a hand to tickle under the baby’s arms, startling a giggle out of him. He smiles at this small accomplishment and tries again. He keeps making faces while he waits for Carl to come back with the bottle. He feels the couch dip from the weight of another body and turns to grab it from his hands.

“About time, man.” Mickey says, but freezes when he notices Ian sitting next to him instead of Carl. “Shit did we wake you up?” He blushes, wondering how long Ian had been watching before he sat down.

“Nah, I was already up.” Ian replies softly and rubs gentle fingers over Yevgeny’s head. “Thought I’d come help with the baby but I guess you and Carl have it covered.” Ian pulls his hand from the baby and instead settles his arm around Mickey’s shoulders. He leans in close, kissing under Mickey’s ear. Mickey leans into the touch just as Ian pulls back again and whispers to the calm baby in Mickey’s lap, “I think his face is pretty funny too, little man.” He laughs as Mickey’s expression turns indignant and he frees a hand to swat Ian away.

“Fuck you,” he says grumpily, but the smile on his face softens the blow. He shifts his arms again as Carl rejoins them and grabs the warm bottle, shoving it in the now cheerfully smiling baby’s mouth. Carl just watches as Ian smiles warmly at the pair and can’t help but be jealous of the happy little family Ian seems to have found for himself. But then, Ian glances up and aims another happy smile at Carl and he figures maybe Ian isn’t replacing his family, just adding onto it.

 


	5. Bullshit You're Fine

By the end of the week, Ian is starting to resemble his old self again. He’s showering regularly, and eating meals again. He’s even started jogging a little bit. Jogging, not running, and nowhere near as far as he used to, but it’s something. Now that it’s warmer out he’s even decided to show off some of his Army training and teach Carl a thing or two.

Ian and Carl start setting up targets under the L while Mickey’s inside getting a gun from the newly locked gun cabinet. The shiny new padlock on the cabinet looks out of place in the grungy kitchen. Carl knows Mickey installed it recently, not because of the baby, but after Fiona clumsily blurted out the ‘s’-word after Ian first crashed.

_ Suicidal. _

Carl shakes his head to rid it of the unwanted visual of Monica’s limp body lying in a pool of her own blood. No. Ian’s not Monica. He’s not as weak as she is. Or as selfish. He wouldn’t do that to his family. To Yevgeny and Mandy. To Mickey.

Still, Carl remembers the conversation he overheard a couple nights ago. Lip had come home to visit and check in on Liam. Carl was upstairs laying in his bunk trying to come up with more ways to get Bonnie to talk to him again. He heard Lip’s voice first, followed by the sound of the fridge door closing and a beer being opened.

“How’s Ian doing?” It figures he wouldn’t just go check himself. Lip was busy up at college. He barely had time for the brief check ins at the Gallagher house these days.

Carl heard Fiona sigh. “Better I think. Carl says he’s been getting out of bed. Going jogging.” She sounds exhausted. “You know it’s just a matter of time. He’s not just gonna get over this, Lip. He needs to go to the clinic; get checked out, get some help.”

“What happened to ‘Gallaghers don’t do therapy’?” Lip asked jokingly. Carl grimaced, hands curling into fists. Fuck Lip. He felt a little better when Fiona didn’t laugh.

“Fuck off, this is serious shit, dude,” Fiona chided. “I tried explaining that to Mickey, but he’s in total denial. He thinks Ian will just magically get better one day. Won’t let me even talk about going to a hospital, but Ian needs medication. He can’t just deal with it on his own. That’s what Monica tried to do and look how well that turned out.” Carl could hear the shaking in her voice and he knew she was just a breath away from crying.

Lip’s voice was almost too quiet to hear.

“I’ll talk to him, Fiona. Don’t worry. He’s not Monica. He’s Ian. Responsible, dependable Ian. He’ll do what’s best. We’ll just make sure he does.”

That had been two days ago and still Lip hasn’t been over to talk to Ian. Carl doesn’t think it would be a good idea anyway. Lip is the worst at talking to anybody about important shit. He doesn’t talk so much as give lectures that make everyone but him seem like a moron. Fuck Lip, Carl will take care of Ian himself. He’s the one who has been there every day. He’s the one who’s been watching over Ian and keeping him company. Not Lip, not Fiona, not Debbie. Carl.

He looks over at Ian, who continues to fiddle with the paper targets they have taped up on the cement pillars of the tracks. Instead of trying to break the ice, Carl does what he does best and says out of nowhere:

“Now that you’re better, are you gonna go to the hospital to see a shrink?”

Ian freezes and Carl hears the back door of the house slam shut as Mickey joins them, a handgun in one hand and a box of bullets in the other.

Carl keeps going. He knows that if he stops, Ian will change the subject and forget about it. He can’t let that happen.

“I mean, if you have what Monica has you need to get that shit figured out, right? Get your meds? Before…” Carl trails off. Before you crash again, he thinks. Before you do something worse than running away from home.

Now it’s Mickey’s turn to freeze as Ian shrugs off the concern and tries to play it off.

“I’m fine now, Carl. Don’t worry about it. I feel fine,” he says, rubbing Carl’s arm in that loving way Carl was so used to. But under the fake smile he could see the tightness in Ian’s jaw. He could feel the shaking in Ian’s hand on his shoulder, too.

“No, you’re not,” Mickey speaks up suddenly. Ian whips his head to face him and glares. “You’re not okay, Ian.” He continues sadly.

“Mick, come on, not again,” Ian rolls his eyes and Mickey bristles.

“No, cut the shit, Ian. I defended you to Fiona when you weren’t able to make the decision yourself but that was before I watched you go practically comatose in bed for weeks, man. You know that shit ain’t normal.” Mickey seems to be struggling to stay calm but Carl can tell he's trying. “You know you gotta go to a doctor, Ian. We have to know what we’re dealing with before we can fix it right?”

Ian rolled tense shoulders and cracked his knuckles. He wouldn’t look either of the other boys in the eye.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he growled between clenched teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit you’re fine,” Mickey fires back. “Prove it, hot shot.”

“The fuck are you talking about,” Ian snaps back.

“Prove to me that you’re back to normal,” Mickey says and starts loading the pistol. Carl stays quiet, just watching how this all plays out.

“Last year you could’ve beat me in target practice with your eyes closed.” Carl is surprised to hear Mickey admit it and the admission startles a laugh out of him. Mickey pauses just long enough to flip Carl the bird. “So,” he continues, “if you’re so great you should probably be able to beat me still. No problem. Right, tough guy?” Mickey finishes with a raised eyebrow. He holds out the pistol for Ian to take but he shoves it back towards Mickey.

“No problem,” Ian grunts back. “You first. Take your best shot.” Ian is smirking now, but it’s not his usual playful smirk. This one is hard and mean.

Mickey turns around and takes aim at the target. Gunshots ring through the air as Mickey fires through the head, neck, stomach and heart of the paper target. His shots are accurate, but Carl has seen Ian do better.

His stomach churns as Ian steps up to take Mickey’s place. His shoulders are steady as he pulls the gun up. His arms are straight as he sights down the barrel, but it’s easy to see that his hands are shaking. Fine tremors move from his hands up his arms. Four loud shots ring out as he pulls the trigger but Carl can tell even from back here that they are not as close as Mickey’s. Only three of the bullets even made it through the target. The fourth is embedded in the concrete next to the target.

Carl looks back at Ian in time to watch him crumple. Mickey catches him before he hits the ground but just barely. Carl stands awkwardly watching as Mickey gathers a now sobbing Ian in his arms. He runs his tattooed hands up and down Ian’s back as he mumbles incoherently into Mickey’s chest.

“Fuck, Mick, you’re right. I’m fucking crazy. I belong in the fuckin’ nuthouse. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with me. I’m such a fucking mess.” Now that he’s started Ian can’t seem to stem the flow of words coming out of his mouth. Mickey says nothing for a while, just letting Ian calm down. When he starts to breathe normally again Mickey reaches for his chin and tilts Ian’s face up towards his.

“Hey, stop with that ‘crazy’ shit, okay? You’re not a mess, you’re just going through some shit.” Mickey wipes away a tear from Ian’s cheek before it can fall. “And fuck you if you think I’m letting you deal with this on your own, you hear? We’re done with that. You and me, we’re in this shit together.”

Ian looks a little more in control by now, but still seems uncertain.

“You mean it?” He asks, and the question seems loaded with more meaning than Carl really understands. Mickey’s fierce expression breaks and Carl definitely feels like he’s intruding on something private. Something between just the two of them.

“Course I do,” Mickey replies and Carl is forgotten momentarily as he pulls Ian in for a passionate kiss. Carl avoids looking at them but they continue as if he isn’t even there. After a few minutes he coughs and the two guiltily separate. Mickey rubs a fist across his mouth, as if he could erase the evidence of their intimacy.

“You’re right.” Ian’s whisper is so quiet the other two boys almost don’t hear it. “I’m not fine. You’re both right.” He stands up and Mickey is quick to follow suit. Ian’s long arms wrap around his body, but not from the cold. “I’ll go to the clinic tomorrow. Get checked out.” He sighs, rubbing his head tiredly. “I don’t know how I’m gonna pay for medication but I’ll see what they say.”

“Ey, man, don’t worry about money,” Mickey pipes up. “We’ll figure that shit out. You get me a list, I’ll make it happen.” Carl catches Mickey’s wink and starts to feel a little better. This had gone much better than he ever could’ve hoped for. Fuck Lip and Fiona and their tiptoeing around. Ian didn’t need them. He had Carl and Mickey watching his back. And they’re getting shit done.


End file.
